


A Heart of Straw

by Crowley_Winchester



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Arkham Asylum, Blood and Injury, Developing Friendships, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multiple Personalities, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowley_Winchester/pseuds/Crowley_Winchester
Summary: Sure, Edward and Jonathan had known each other. They had been roommates in Arkham for a time, had even joined up on a few crime sprees. But to say they were friends was a stretch that only Edward would be willing to make. However, one night full of mistakes might be enough to change that.





	1. Seeing Red

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing Scriddler, and my first time on AO3 in a LONG time. Let me know if you like it, or have any ideas what I should write next!

Hey, Jonny! It's been a while. Could I ask you for a tiny little favor? EN

That all depends. What sort of favor? JC

I just need a place to hole up, and I happen to know your current home is right around the corner. What do you say? EN

Whatever happened to your place? JC

Nothing, I just need somewhere to go as soon as possible, and my place is across town. EN

((Delayed)) Fine. You don't have the Bat after you, do you? JC

Oh no, just a silly gang that didn't like it when I told them it was their own fault their boss got captured when using one of my toys. EN

That sounds awfully like a personal problem. I don't want whatever trouble you've stirred up because of your ego. JC

Come on Jonny, for old time's sake? You know you owe me. EN

I owe you? For what? JC

((Delayed)) Something? Probably? EN  
Come on, I need you. I'll even owe you one, alright? EN

Fine. As long as those idiots you've pissed off aren't close behind. I'm not in the mood to waste my toxin. JC

They're not, I promise. If you could unlock your door, I would appreciate it. EN

 

If Jon was being honest, he wasn't at all surprised. Eddie, upsetting a whole gang simply because he couldn't resist stroking his ego, then running off with his tail between his legs because he couldn't fight to save his life? Jon was only surprised that it hadn't happened sooner. He was willing enough to indulge the younger man for the time being, however, if only because it never hurt to have a favor to call in when necessary. Jon unlocked the door, but remained standing in the doorway, his tall, spindly frame blocking Edward's path as he peered down with narrowed eyes. Finally, he sighed, stepping aside. "The things I do," he muttered with an eye roll. "I'm sure you remember the rules. Don't touch, smell, or drink any unlabeled liquids. You may wake up after two days of screaming your throat raw."

Edward's face practically lit up when the door opened that he had been leaning against, the light revealing that he was a little paler than usual. "Oh, you know me, Jonny. Never a rule breaker. What's a little fear toxin anyways?" His green jacket was off, clutched tightly to his abdomen, and when he was allowed to walk in, he stumbled slightly before immediately going to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Ed peeled his jacket away, wincing at the crimson that had already soaked through his shirt. What he had failed to mention to his unwilling host, in fear of being turned away, was that Edward hadn't known the gang was armed when he began running his mouth. The criminal unbuttoned the ruined shirt before grabbing a washcloth, wetting it and gingerly trying to wipe away the blood. He knew he would have to remove the bullet at some point, but he wasn't quite ready for that. 

Jon's eyes narrowed further, gaze turning suspicious at Ed's decidedly weirder-than-normal behavior. Jacket off, bunched against his side, so far from the prim and proper image he usually very loudly presented. Something didn't feel right, a feeling compounded as he watched Ed stagger inside and head straight for his bathroom. Yes, something was /very/ wrong. Slowly, Jonathan approached the bathroom, knocking lightly. "Edward," he called, straining his ears. Ed was being awfully quiet, or - was that wheezing noise his breathing? "Edward, are you feeling alright? Ed-" Chancing the doorknob, Jon turned it, surprised to find that the other had neglected to lock it behind him. Jonathan's words stopped short, eyes going wide as he spotted the bright, spreading crimson stain in Ed's side. "You /idiot/!" Jon hissed, throwing the door fully open as fear suddenly clutched him, unfamiliar in its severity. "Were you /shot/?"

Edward had managed to find a pair of tweezers after he cleaned off enough of the blood that he could see where the wound was, for now. It was continuously bleeding, and didn't look like it planned to stop any time soon. He was trying to get a good view of the bullet hole, trying to figure out where it had been lodged, before hearing a knock at the door. Shit. The man bit his lip, trying to think of something to say that would make Jonathan go away, but the pain was rather distracting to his usually sharp mind. "Jon, I-" Whatever Edward was going to say got caught in his throat as the door was slammed open, his fright making his drop the tweezers and jerk against the wall. Ed's face blanched, even more than it already was, and he grabbed the jacket in a weak attempt to hide the wound, as if that could possibly help now. "Listen, Jonny, just give me five minutes, and I'll be out, I promise, just five minutes." Edward knew he was rambling, but it was the only way he could protect himself from what could only be anger coming from the man in the doorway.

"You were shot, Edward," Jon repeated through grit teeth. God, there was already blood everywhere. Normally, seeing such fear on a person's face was deliciously satisfying, but on Ed, it was just anything but. Was he worried? Impossible, he couldn't be. He was only concerned with the fact that Ed was getting blood all over his things. That's it. And, if Ed so happened to die, then he'd have a body to get rid of, and Jon was very much /not/ in the mood to deal with, and any possible Bat-related problems it might bring up. Yes, that was it. Jon growled in displeasure, running a hand through his hair. "Out, /out/," Jon snapped, eyes flitting back and forth over the scene. Not ushering Ed out of his home, just out of the cramped bathroom, out in someplace with more space. "I hope you realize I'm not that kind of doctor, but I'm not about to let you bleed out in my bathroom. What were you thinking?"

Edward looked down at the blood already smeared on the floor and surrounding surfaces, running a hand through his hair. Perhaps, if his face wasn't so pale, it would have turned red with shame. He staggered out of the bathroom, mumbling a series of apologies as he did so, before leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. It had been such a long time since he had gotten this injured, he had almost completely forgotten what it felt like.. Now, he wasn't going to be forgetting anytime soon. "Never said you were that kind of doctor, Jonny, though if I remember correctly, don't think you're a doctor anymore at all." The weak laugh that came out was obviously a struggle, and Edward just shook his head. "I didn't know where else to go. I just needed to get here, and then I would figure it out." The man kept his eyes on Jonathan, keeping them open and alert through pure willpower.

Jon scoffed, grabbing whatever towels were left and the tweezers that Edward had dropped on the floor. Ed's worsening pallor was becoming increasingly worrying, as the amount of blood he'd lost just in the bathroom alone; who knew how much he'd lost coming here. "With all the work I put into my degree, I'll continue to call myself doctor for as long as I damn well please," Jonathan muttered. Pausing at the state of Ed in the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall, the man's jaw set. Without thinking, Jon quickly slung one of Ed's arms over his shoulders and began hauling him towards what passed for the kitchen. Not much better than the bathroom, but linoleum was much easier to scrub blood from than carpet that was already stained and marred from months of chemicals and acids. "Figure it out huh?" Jonathan glanced at Ed as he dragged him along, frowning as watched the other's eyes continue to flutter shut. "/Hey/," the doctor snapped, jostling Edward in his grip. "Stay awake. We,'' figure it out. Solve this riddle, why don't you? Ah..." Jon wracked his brain for something, trying to remember any of the dozens of idiotic riddles Edward had prattled at him during their association. "How about this? What runs around a house but doesn't move?"

Edward smiled, shaking his head and chuckling weakly. "/Mr./ Crane." He gasped in a mixture of surprise and pain as he was suddenly pulled from his position on the wall, staggering alongside Jonathan while struggling to keep up. Why was that man walking so fast? It had to be the legs, no human should have legs that long. "Maybe I would have figured it out if you didn't...interrupt me." The man's words were starting to become slurred as his eyes slipped closed, but they snapped open again as he was jostled awake. "Gently!" Edward tried to snap, but it ended up coming out more like a whine. The riddle... he knew that riddle. Could he call himself the Riddler if he couldn't answer something as simple as that? His brain just wasn't cooperating, he was just too tired, maybe if he just closed his eyes... It took until they were already in the kitchen before Ed could finally mutter, "a fence," a slow smile spreading across his face before he pulled himself from Jonathan, practically collapsing back against a counter. "Let's just wait here," the man mumbled, his head lolling."

Ed was losing too much blood, too fast. The fear that Jonathan was so very fond of inflicting upon others was steadily creeping up on him, shocking him to the extent that Jon was almost wondering if he'd accidentally dosed himself before Ed arrived. It took him much too long to answer a riddle that even /Jon/ knew to have been remarkably laughable in its difficulty. "How about another?" he suggested, busying himself with gently guiding Ed to the floor, atop the towels he threw down to soak up the eventual mess. He just had to keep Ed talking for as long as he could. Jonathan almost wanted to laugh at the irony; usually, he couldn't get Edward to shut up. "Let's do another. When's the best time to go to the dentist?" The doctor pushed aside Ed's bloodied shirt, frown deepening at the sight of the still-bleeding gunshot wound. No exit wound, which unfortunately meant that he would have to dig the bullet out. It was no small grace that many of the chemicals he used for his toxins tended to double as convenient improv-first air. Jon cleaned away what blood he could, feeling pressed for time. It was one thing to stitch his own wounds, all the times he'd met the wrong end of a Batarang, but somebody else? Jon swallowed thickly. "Another riddle, let's keep you talking. I have a ring, but no hands. What am I?" Jon pressed, fumbling with the tweezers briefly before getting to work with a single-minded determination. The bullet couldn't have gone /that/ deep, could it?

Edward went to the floor rather ungracefully, his eyes focusing on the ceiling slowly before he attempted to laugh, a rather pathetic sound at this point. "When have you ever...liked riddles?" His head lolled to the side, and Ed stared blankly at a cabinet, his eyes attempting to keep flickering open. The best time to go to the dentist... What little thought process he had left wasn't providing him with an answer. "I...don't know," he mumbled, his fingers twitching at the feeling of a cloth wiping away the blood staining his abdomen. Before Edward could even begin to start thinking about the next riddle, his eyes shot open, the tweezers digging too deep inside, letting out a shriek of pain and starting to struggle. It was only a moment before the bullet was pulled out, blood spurting and Ed slumping back to the floor once more. He held up his hand, covered in his own blood, staring at it before letting it drop to the floor, his eyes slipping closed.

"Come on, Ed, even Joker could solve that riddle," Jonathan growled, trying and failing to keep the worry from his voice as he kept digging for the bullet, unsure of whether or not he was just inflicting more damager. Since when couldn't Edward solve a riddle? Since when would Edward ever admit to not knowing the answer to a riddle? Jon swore under his breath, his Georgian accent beginning to slip out. "I /don't/ like riddles, don't you dare assume otherwise once all this bullshit is over," he growled, and- there, he could feel the bullet. He angled the tweezers accordingly, just a little more, and- Jonathan pulled the bullet out, grimacing at the blood flowing and Ed's ear-splitting scream. "Ed?" No response. He swore again, hurriedly digging around for a needle and thread. It was a poor excuse for proper stitches, but it wasn't like Jon had any other option, lest he be reduced to actually calling a real doctor and risk having them /both/ hauled off to Arkham. Jon made short work of the wound, stitching it up to the best of his ability and trying to not let his nervousness affect his ability. "Come on, Edward," Jon tried again, mopping up what blood he could, panic creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "One more riddle, one more? You wouldn't honestly leave a riddle unanswered, would you? Last one. What has four eyes, but doesn't see? /Surely/ you know that one."

Edward's eyes flickered open again, not opening more than halfway as he attempted to turn his head so he could see Jonathan. Not that it really mattered, he didn't even bother opening his eyes enough to see more than a brown blur. "I like your voice like this," he murmured, a slightly askew smile spreading across his face. Couldn't Jonathan see that it was time to go to sleep? "You ask...hard riddles," the man mumbled, the needle going through his skin forcing his eyes to stay awake, the dull bursts of pain reminders that the warm feeling covering his body was because he was soaked in blood. Ed's eyes opened all the way, rolling around for a moment before focusing on Jonathan. "Mississippi," he finally replied, too distracted to even be able to scold himself for not knowing it sooner, for even having to think about it. "Let me sleep, just five minutes," the man slurred, his eyes drifting shut as he slightly curled himself around the wound, the tension in his body disappearing.

It took a moment for Jon to understand what Ed had meant, what his voice could have possibly sounded like to be different enough to comment on. He'd very nearly took offense, thinking Ed was teasing him for being afraid- which he most certainly was /not/. He was the /Scarecrow/, he made others afraid, he didn't have the capacity to feel fear himself. But Jonathan felt heat rise to his face once he realised that Ed was talking about his accent, which Jon had reverted to in his building panic. He'd long ago trained himself out of it, wanting to be perceived as more erudite and respectable by his peers, but it tended to slip out whenever he was stressed or tired. Or afraid. "Took you long enough," Jon muttered, though he was unable to help the shaky smile in response to Edward's own. "But, I think- Hey." Jonathan tapped at Ed's face, the deathly pale of his skin causing the doctor's stomach to roll more than the copious amounts of blood surrounding the pair did. Blood, too much blood; how much had Ed lost? What if Ed was still bleeding internally? What if he'd nicked an artery? 'No, no, he's fine, he's going to be fine, he has to be fine,' Jon repeated mentally, trying to convince himself from the facts he saw spread before him. Surely there had to be something more he could do. Fear toxin? No, too dangerous, Edward was far too weak for it. Maybe he had a diluted dose somewhere, a weaker formula that would do just enough to keep Ed's heart beating until his blood replenished or stabilised so Jon could go plunder a blood bank. "Hey," Jon snapped again, scowling at the lack of response. "Oh, damn it all to hell." He left for a moment, returning with a needle of epinephrine, just enough to keep Edward's heart going, and injected it into Ed's arm. If push came to shove, he had a much bigger, much more painful needle that went straight into the heart itself. "No sleeping. Why don't you tell me a few riddles, hm? Prove that mental superiority you're always going on about." The kitchen floor was no place to recover, nor was it a place to possibly bleed out and die. Grunting, Jonathan attempted to pick Ed up, staggering a little himself before managing to hook his arms around him in a clumsy bridal carry, only succeeding because Ed's frame was nearly as slim as his own, with much less height. He grimaced distastefully at the blood soaking into his own clothing, but it wasn't like there was much more to be done about it. Jonathan brought him into a room that ordinally would be designated as a living room in other homes, but had instead been transformed into a disorganised, oversized office, papers and books strewn about everywhere with a large desk off to one side. There was, however, still a large couch one that Jon slept on more often than not. Gently, the doctor deposited Edward there, a grim look to his face. "Edward?" Jon prompted, wary, "/Edward/." A pause. He sighed raggedly, running a hand down his face while sinking to the ground, leaning against the couch. Why did he /care/ what happened to Ed? One less rogue to deal with meant less competition. He'd expended his already minimal amount of medical knowledge. The most he could do now was make sure that Ed didn't stop breathing. "If you can still hear me, I hope you know you're an idiot. You owe me, big time."

Edward felt Jonathan's touch to his face, heard the other calling out his name, but it meant nothing to him. The voice sounded so very far away, and right now, Ed was warm and safe. It had been so long since he had been able to get a good night's sleep, and to be fair, that was mostly his fault. Most nights, the Riddler was far too busy working son something to do anything but wait until he was about to collapse before dragging himself to bed. This was so much better than that, the darkness letting all of his problems flow away- The man flinched, his eyes snapping open again, seeing a needle be pulled out of his arm. The sleepiness was gone for a moment, Ed feeling alert, but the darkness still didn't leave the corners of his vision. Edward looked down at his forearm before looking up at Jonathan, a tiny smirk crossing his face. "Can't only doctors do that?" The man's eyes slipped shut before he forced them open again,his gaze staring blankly ahead. "Can't think enough...for riddles now." Perhaps Ed would have continued staring blankly, but before that could happen, a pair of arms uneasily picked him up, Edward letting out a small whimper of pain. He curled into the warm body, taking a moment before the man realised that the lanky man was actually Jonathan. "Didn't know you could...pick me up at all," he murmured, smiling, his hand wrapping around the fabric of the shirt and ignoring the bloody handprint he left behind. As Edward was set down onto the couch, he tried for a moment to hold onto Jonathan's shirt before letting his arm drop in defeat. It was nice, to have something to grip on. Something safe, something anchoring, that would protect him. That is, if Jonathan wouldn't try to kill him in his sleep. It had happened before. Ed's eyes began to flutter once more, though that didn't stop him from chuckling. "I owe you a new couch and new carpeting," he murmured, another askew smile creeping over his face. The pain from the wound had already mostly faded. Now, just to make sure he survived it. Edward reached forward blindly, finding Jonathan's pant leg and balling it in a weak fist. "I'm sorry, for not getting you when I had the chance." The man's mind had started to drift from the current, instead drifting back months ago to Arkham. The roommates had planned an escape, and of course, Jonathan had to mess up his glorious plan somehow. When the alarms began to go off, Edward had started peeling down the halls at full speed. He had looked back, seeing Jonathan get smacked in the face with a baton. Ed had paused, considering going back for the other, until the guards saw him and the Riddler took off once more.

"I /am/ a doctor," Jonathan retorted, never mind the fact that he'd already pointed out he wasn't that kind of doctor. Like you need an entire degree to know how to use a needle. If that were the case, Jonathan wouldn't be making nearly as much money as he was dabbling in the drug trade. "Any fool can use a needle. Just be glad I didn't give you the full toxin, just an ingredient of it. Consider yourself lucky." Despite the venom Jon had meant to inject into his tone, he sounded more sullen than anything, morose and dour. Edward was alive, but only for now. He supposed he could be pressed to admit he was happy for that. Grateful, even. Ed was alive, breathing, still hanging on. It was enough to make Jon ignore the way Ed had clung to him, to the way Ed had tried to insult his strength. The way Ed was clinging to him, even now, fist balled weakly in the loose fabric of his pants. The man who usually despised all touch of any kind found that he could let it slide. "It's...fine," Jon said slowly, looking at Edward oddly. He didn't quite know what Ed was referring to, until he thought back to the last time they'd seen each other in any real capacity- their botched, or rather, Jon's botched, attempt at a prison escape. Ed had been the only one to make it out, leaving Jon behind to be beaten within an inch of his life by over-eager guards looking to get even for years of transgressions. Jon sighed, unable to help the slightly bitter laugh that escaped his throat. "Nothing to be sorry about, Edward. What could you have done, after all?" He let himself fall into silence, simply listening to Ed's shallow but thankfully still present breathing. All this, for a man Jonathan figured he only ever tolerated to a minimal degree. So much for the Master of Fear. "Just so you know, if you die, I will bring you back just so I can kill personally. I won't have my hard work wasted." The doctor took a weary breath, looking over Ed, his expression carefully blank, He didn't want to think too deeply about all the reasons why, exactly, he didn't want the other to die. Absently, he covered Edward's hand with his own. Not to remove it, just- to have it there. "You'll need to stick around, anyhow. Who else would be able to insult the Bat's intelligence to quite the degree you do, after all?"

"There's always something I could've done, Jonny." Edward's grip weakened on the other's pant leg until he let t go, his fingers tangling into Jonathan's hand. He wrapped his other arm around the wound, reminding himself that he needed to stay focused and stay awake; at this point, if he fell asleep, there was far too much of a chance that he would never wake up again. "If I die..." Ed's expression went blank for a moment before he pulled his hand away from the other's, pulling out a slightly bloody pen and grabbing Jonathan's hand with all the strength he had, which was admittedly not much. Slowly, with incredibly sloppy handwriting, the man wrote a series of numbers and letters. "You can have them. My things. Rather you than someone else." Edward chuckled, though there was something disappointed in his eyes. Dying from a silly gangster? What a waste. The man's arm tightened around his wound, and despite the fact he had to grit his teeth from the surge of pain, it forced his eyes to stay open. Ed shot Jon a smile, though it was a little too wide for his face. "Exactly. I've gotta get the Bat, one more time. So many plans..." His eyelids began fluttering again, and even another squeeze of his wound didn't do enough to make it stop for long. With a sigh, Edward let his arm move up his chest, away from the hole in his abdomen, before turning his attention back to Jonathan. If he was thinking clearly, maybe he would be panicked about the fact that death seemed right around the corner, but there was something eerily calm about the whole experience. Jonathan was certainly Ed's favourite out of the other rogues, and he didn't seem like he planned on leaving Edward alone. The man reached out, entangling his fingers once more around Jonathan's hand. "On any day, I don't ever know if I fear you or like you, but...at least we're friendly this day, yeah?" Edward chuckled, the sound dying away as his eyes slipped closed once more.

It felt like Jonathan's heart suddenly leapt into his throat when Ed shifted his hand to loosely take his own. It was- it was nothing. It meant nothing. Ed was confused from the blood loss, was all. He watched with no small amount of bemusement as Edward proceeded to take up his hand and a pen, sloppily writing several things down. "The final will and testament of Edward Nygma," Jon commented wryly, squinting his eyes at the near-indecipherable and practically illegible handwriting that Ed had scrawled into the palm of his hand. Ed's handwriting was horrendous enough on a good day, yet- Something in Jon's chest constricted all the same. He didn't want to think about the very possible notion that the other was exactly as close to death as he evidently believed. Biting comments teasing Ed for assuming Jon would ever want any of his things in the first place were on the tip of his tongue, but he found he didn't have the heart to voice them. The doctor watched Edward continue to struggle to stay conscious and tried to stifle his building panic. He had no way of knowing how much blood Ed had lost on his way over, or whether he was still losing blood now. Jonathan had done his best on the surface, stitching the wound closed, but what could be done about everything else? What if Ed did die? Edward entwined his fingers with his once more and Jon found his loose grip tightening involuntarily. 'Pathetic. Caring,' he muttered to himself. He couldn't believe he actually /cared/. The least- no, the absolute most he could do now was ensure that Ed kept breathing. 'You know there's more you could do,' a traitorous voice in his mind whispered, rasping and dark. Jonathan grimaced. Of all the times for the Scarecrow personality to rear its ugly head. It was tempting, so very tempting- it'd be /easy/, going in with scythe swinging, holding the entire hospital hostage with fear toxin until a doctor agreed to carry out a transfusion. No doubt it would attract the attentions of the Bat, as well as the city's entire police force, but so long as the Scarecrow got what he wanted, there was a good chance they could be in and out before they risked being captured. "...Yeah," Jon agreed belatedly, a reluctant murmur. He didn't let go of Ed's hand. "I would say we're pretty friendly now." Ed's trailing chuckle unsettled him. He looked over, swallowing when he saw that the other's eyes had already fallen closed again. "I...would prefer if you didn't die."

Edward forced his eyes open again, though only marginally. A slow smile spread across the man's face, and he did his best to squeeze Jonathan's hand back. "Aw, Jonny. You don't have to lie for me. It's ok." Even as he bled out on the other's couch, he was still as certain as ever that Jon had feelings barely more than dislike for him. Even if it wasn't the same the other way around. God, sometimes Edward really was an idiot. How did he become friends with this bastard anyways? "Make sure to..give Victor his gun I'm working on...and Harley my regards...and Selina the middle finger." He laughed, little more than a weak wheeze, before closing his eyes, struggling to open them again. This was all happening too fast. He didn't even have the thought process to make sure everything was taken care of. Edward's grip on Jonathan's hand tightened suddenly, and he forced his eyes open completely. "If...my father...shows up at my fucking funeral, kill him for me." The sudden burst of strength faded, and Ed's eyes closed again, the grip on Jonathan's hand loosening. As the man's eyes shut, his heart began to falter, it becoming a struggle to continue pumping blood through his body. The bullet hole had been sewn shut, yes, but the bullet had been unlucky enough to knick an artery, and the internal bleeding was a death sentence.

"I don't-" Jon stammered, unexpectedly surprised at Edward's words, a curious flare of indignity rising up at the accusation that he would lie about something like that. "I'm not /lying/, Edward, why would I ever-" He cut himself off as he noticed Ed's decidedly worsening state, brows drawing together in confusion as Ed rambled on and on about- no. Horror dawned slowly as Jonathan stood, hand still grasping Edward's even if the other's strength had dwindled down to nothing, fingers now only limply laced with his own. "Don't say that," he snapped, unwilling to believe the other would give up quite so easily. "Edward, I'll kill your father right this instant if you'll stop speaking this utter nonsense. You're not going anywhere. Ed? Ed. Edward!" The doctor squeezed Ed's hand, but got nothing in response- just a cold, pale hand laying unresponsive in his. A hand darted out, hurriedly pressing fingers to Edward's neck; all Jonathan could feel was a steadily weakening pulse. Panic gripped, sudden and sharp. /Panic/- him! Scarecrow, the Master of Fear! And for what- all because of an annoying little brat who didn't know well enough to keep his nose out of trouble, who Jon always found himself helping despite any and all protests he put up, who Jon most often ended up working with only because the Riddler was the only other person deserving of his intellect, who Jon might even care for- no. Jonathan swore, leaping up. He could hardly think past the blood roaring in his ears. Could he really manage it, taking over an entire hospital purely to save one man's life? Could he really risk being thrown back into Arkham for this?

He would have to.


	2. Seeing White

Edward was already lost inside of his own mind by the time Jonathan even squeezed his hand. His mind was lost in the past, bringing up images he had long since forced himself to forget. He was standing before his father, asking question after question. Always the curious child. However, his father wasn't having any of it, and after telling Ed to stop twice, he turned around and smacked his son's face, causing Edward to fall to the floor. He had forgotten how much that had hurt. The next memory practically made Ed laugh as he realized what was happening. He watched himself slip into his old classroom in the middle of the night, looking around before pulling out the puzzle box. There was a challenge next class, and Edward just /had/ to win, he just had to, and so, he practiced the puzzle over and over until he could do it with ease. That, of course, earned him a beating, just like every A he brought home did. Memories flashed before him, from when he practically fled his home to when he became the Riddler. Friends, enemies, lovers, they all flashed before him before his mind settled on the image of Jonathan, looking at him worriedly before his eyes closed, and with it, the stream of memories. He was dying.

Jon all at once became a flurry of movement, heeding the beckoning call of Scarecrow without thinking. If Ed was bleeding out still, simply giving more blood wouldn't help-- he'd need surgery. To get surgery, they'd need an actual hospital. To get to an actual hospital... Scarecrow stared down at the dying man laying on Jon's couch. Fear was usually an emotion he craved, seeking it out anywhere he possibly could, but now, He felt nothing. With uncommon gentleness, Scarecrow affixed a gas mask to Ed's face, just in case push came to shove, and picked him up. It wasn't difficult to hijack the first car they came across, the original occupant of the vehicle quickly reduced to a blubbering mess on the side of the road, and it didn't take much longer for Scarecrow to haul ass to the nearest hospital, tires screeching into the ambulance bay to the ER. They were pressed for time, as Jon kept so helpfully reminding him. The second his presence was recognized, Batman wouldn't be far behind. The sight of Scarecrow marching into the emergency room, a dying, bleeding Riddler cradled in his arms, was certainly an odd but no less frightening sight to see. Scarecrow carefully laid him over a gurney, and grabbed the collar of the nearest doctor that had foolishly come to investigate. "This man is dying," Scarecrow rasped, his voice suddenly so much different from Jon's, deep and rough and deadly, eyes nothing more than burning points of light behind his mask as he pressed the edge of his scythe blade to the doctor's throat. "Hickory dickory dock, your life in on the clock. Fix him, or you and everybody else dies too. No police. No Batman. He lives, we leave. Now do it."

The doctor stared at the Scarecrow in horror before nodding quickly, looking down at the gurney at the Riddler. Well, fuck. This wasn't how he had expected this day to go at all. "I need you, you, and you to come with me now," he ordered at the surrounding nurses before checking the Riddler's pulse. He was fading fast. Not good. "I need someone to get me a shot of B, stat!" he shouted again before pushing the gurney into the nearest operating room. A nearby PA, who had heard the doctor, began walking quickly across the hospital to the front desk before urgently whispering to call the police; A "shot of B" had long been established as the code to get Batman down to the hospital. The doctor, once in the operating room, cut off the Riddler's shirt before examining the wound. If it was already sealed, and his health was deteriorating... "Interior bleeding. We're going to have to go in." The man began the surgery, carefully to ensure that nothing he did angered the Scarecrow behind him, but fervently hoping that the police or Batman would show up soon enough.

It was tempting, if only for a moment, to revel in the fear Scarecrow’s presence inspired in the lobby of the emergency room. Doctors and nurses scrambling wildly about, citizens in the waiting room suddenly realizing their emergency wasn’t nearly quite that important and making a quick exit out the door— it was marvelous, and Scarecrow almost wanted to throw a few gas bombs into the mix so that the fun could really get started. Jon made sure that he didn’t, however. Unfortunate. Scarecrow rolled a bomb absently between his fingers all the same, eyes narrowing in suspicion beneath the mask at the nurse that had been sent off under some odd orders by the doctor. He would deal with her later. Scarecrow stalked the operating room behind the doctor, sulking in the shadows, his tall, thin frame combined with the nightmarish qualities of Scarecrow’s drew making for a decidedly unsettling and looming fashion figure, one hand still wielding the scythe, the other a fistful of toxin. Occasionally he seemed to mutter nursery rhymes to himself under his breath, as though as a means of self-comfort, though it only served to add to the already tense atmosphere. “No funny business, Doctor,” Scarecrow hissed in harsh reminder, voice momentarily warbling into a rushed rendition of I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell as he cast a wary glance out the windows of the door leading into the operation theater. “Remember— no Batman, no police. I still have more than enough fear toxin to bring this entire building to its knees if anything goes wrong.” Ed looked so small, laying there on the operating table, face wan and pale from blood loss. So young. The sight was abrupt, enough to shake Scarecrow to the core. He tapped the butt of the scythe against the floor in an impatient rhythm. Scarecrow may have felt nothing for Edward, but Jon clearly felt enough for the both of them. 

This was certainly the most tense operation that the doctor had ever done. Not only was he performing surgery on a dying criminal, but a man more like a demon was prowling behind him, watching his every move. “Get him in an oxygen tank and hook him up to an IV, he needs more blood now,” the man snapped to the nurses beside him before looking down at the wound in front of him. “Get me that retractor and a compressor,” he ordered after the oxygen mask was secured and the IV was inserted. The doctor set up the retractor, holding open the wound before attaching the compressor to the Riddler’s chest, lessening the blood flow. Now they were on a time limit.  
The man swallowed, glancing to the Scarecrow once more before looking at the wound. He could just act not quickly enough, letting the little bit of life left in the man on his operating table did. The doctor shook his head before holding out his hand. “I need a artery patch.”The operation didn’t take long; the Riddler has been lucky, the bullet had broken the artery in half, merely opened it. Once the patch was attached, the doctor removed the compressor and the retractor, sewing the wound closed. “He’s going to live. He needs a steady supply of blood, considering the amount he lost,” he told the Scarecrow, quickly backing away from the Riddler once he had finished sewing the wound closed. The doctor paled as sirens could be heard in the distance. Damn it, damn it, damn it. “You can take him,” he said before pushing the nurses in front of him out of the room. 

For a very brief moment, things almost seemed to be going alright. Then, the distant wail of police sirens began to drift in through the doors. “I said no police!” Scarecrow bellowed in rage after the fleeing doctors. “Cowards! Liars! Now you will know fear!” The doctors and nurses were already gone, the surgery doors swinging behind them, and had Jon been in his right mind he might never have bothered wasting his breath. Not that it mattered now-- Scarecrow was in control, now, and Scarecrow was out for vengeance. The doctor had lied, and for that he would pay with his life. Affixing a gas mask over Ed's face, Scarecrow threw gas canisters down the hallway the doctors had fled, leaping onto a countertop afterwards to pry open the ac vent and lob gas bombs through there as well. It would do nothing but buy them time. That, Scarecrow was well aware. It was severely unfortunate that time was something they did not have. The initial blood transfusion had yet to complete its course, and what little actual medical knowledge Jon wielded made him know that a single transfusion wasn't going to cut it. He couldn't stay here for the several hours longer necessary, they needed to move. Scarecrow had half a mind to hold his ground, as foolish as the notion was. Perhaps-- perhaps, if he made his demands simple. The Bat was known to be sympathetic, in the right light. The entire hospital for the life of one man. He glanced back at Edward, life yet to color his face again, filled with tubes and wires of all kinds, the heart monitor providing a steady tempo to an otherwise quiet room, the other other noise being Scarecrow's ragged breathing and the distant hiss of gas. Ed would be alright. His wound had been patched and sewn up correctly, this time. No further danger of bleeding out. But he was backed into a corner. police sirens meant the whole place was soon to be surrounded, and there was only so long Scarecrow could hold out, so long his gas would last. Rifling through the contents of the surgery room, Scarecrow found an insulated bag, and packed it with blood. He held out just long enough for the current transfusion to finish, then grabbed Ed again-- gurney and all, and set out into the smoke-filled hallway, scythe in hand. If he was going to get caught, he wasn't going out without a fight. 

 

Jim Gordon stepped out of the police car, examining the hospital. The call they had gotten was whispered and frantic; sadly, something common in the city of Gotham. A woman on the phone had quickly reported that Scarecrow had entered the building with someone else, threatening the hospital if his orders weren’t complied. 

“What’s the plan, Commish?” Bullock asked as he looked at the building in front of them with a frown. 

“For us, we’re going to wait,” Jim replied, pointing to above them where Batman could be seen landing on the roof of the hospital. 

Bruce, having overheard the distress call, had gone to the hospital as fast as he could, a gas mask already attached to his face. Having no idea why Jonathan was actually in the hospital, he had assumed he was on a chemical run with an accomplice. The Batman kicked open a vent, climbing from the roof to the top floor of the hospital. People were already beginning to fix gas masks to patients and themselves as the gas began coming through the vents, the screams nearby telling him that not all were successful in their attempts. The report had said he was on the first floor, and Batman ran to the stairs, running down. The incoherent screams became louder until he reached the ground floor, where everyone was already affected by the gas. The hero began running down the halls, people making way for him as they scrambled back in horror, knowing Crane had to be here somewhere.

The hospital had quickly become a winding maze, a macabre funhouse with hallways full of haze and gas, the distant sound of screams and shouts filling the air alongside the ever-present drone of police sirens. Oh, it was so close to being simple, why couldn’t people ever understand? Nobody had to get hurt, and certainly nobody had to die— but Scarecrow would as certainly not shy away should someone be unlucky enough to cross his path. He needed— he needed an exit, someplace the police wouldn’t think to barricade. A loading bay, perhaps? That would be towards the back, out of the way, where he could slip himself and Ed into a supply truck, and be on their way...Scarecrow carried on muttering to himself as he wound his way through the hospital corridors, steadfastly ignoring any victims under his thrall he may have passed, every so often dipping into a lilting and rhyming tone, dragging Ed’s gurney carefully alongside him and occasionally pausing just long enough to ensure he was still breathing. He need to get out, he just needed to get them out—There, a noise. Scarecrow paused, going deathly still as he gripped tightly to the bars of Ed’s gurney. Very nearly imperceptible but there all the same. It could only mean one thing, and Scarecrow growled at the thought of it. His suspicions were confirmed when the Bat rounded the corner ahead of him, at the end of the hallway. Scarecrow immediately shifted his stance, taking a defensive stand in front of Ed, teeth bared threateningly beneath his mask and scythe wielded in front of him. “Make way, fiend,” Scarecrow sneered. “I desire no quarrel, for once. They lied, and they paid! They paid!” He drew back, stepping closer to Ed’s side as though to shield him. Scarecrow wanted no quarrel, but if it was a fight Batman wanted, it was a fight Batman would get. “All I ask,” Scarecrow said, slowly and carefully, “is passage. He’s—“ Jon halted, the persona of Scarecrow slipping for a split second. “He’s hurt, and I shall not have us returned to Arkham for the mistake of someone else.” 

"No!" Scarecrow snarled, the prospect of being sent to Arkham without no way of knowing of Edward's condition until he was healthy enough to be sent back to Arkham himself. If he ever made it through all this to begin with, and Scarecrow suddenly found himself unable to trust anyone except himself with Ed's care exclusively, that fear once again gripping him tightly and refusing to let go. He recoiled from Batman's advancement, raising the scythe in warning as the Bat drew nearer to his patient; of all times for forgo his injector gauntlet! If he'd thought to grab it he'd have a syringe sticking out of Batman's neck and be long out the door by now. Scarecrow scoffed at the mention of people dying of his gas, rolling his eyes and laughing bitterly at Batman's poor attempt at negotiation. "It's no fault of mine what happens to other people. I promised no harm would come to them if Edward had simply been cared for, but..." Scarecrow shrugged casually, uncaring of the plight of the screams still drifting down the halls. In his eyes, they deserved it. He grit his teeth in frustration against Batman's words. "Scarecrow," he hissed, venom practically dripping from his tone. "I'm afraid Jonathan cannot be reached right now. Why should I trust you?"

Batman narrowed his eyes at the Scarecrow, taking a step back from his patient as he saw the scythe become raised. “Those people were trying to save their patients. Just as you are now.” “Scarecrow, you know as well as I do that I don’t go back on my word. It is why I so rarely give it. But I swear to you that no further harm would come to Edward.” If he was being honest, the man had already lost hope that this negotiation was going to work. The cops would be entering the building soon, the screams of patients and doctors throughout the hospital too much to have nothing being done. “I’m going to give you one last chance. Take my offer,” he warned, clenching his fists and taking another step back into a defensive stance. “You know what’s best for him, Jonathan.” The Scarecrow would certainly go down fighting, but perhaps the doctor inside might be willing to listen to reason.

He didn’t want to believe him. He couldn’t believe him. Why should he? What good had Batman ever done for the Scarecrow and Riddler? Yet-- standing there, with a severely injured Ed behind him still hanging onto life by a thread, Scarecrow was forced to come to the reluctant conclusion that he must. Even the self-proclaimed God of Fear knew when he was backed into a corner. He could only take Batman head on, one-on-one, for so long. Where Scarecrow may have had his speed and relative nimbleness, Batman had sheer raw strength and power-- not to mention, he wasn't distracted by the thought of the man he sought to protect dying. Batman swore that no further harm would come to Edward. Could Jon trust that? Could Scarecrow trust that? Jon cared, he really did, but even through the haze of Scarecrow's mask he could see he was only being selfish. Ed needed help, not whatever Jon or Scarecrow thought they could provide. 

You know what's best for him, Jonathan.

Jon's shoulders were shaking. The scythe slipped free of his hands, clattering to the floor, sinking to his knees soon after, one hand still gripped tightly to the bars of the gurney. He couldn't help but wonder if he was making a mistake. "If he-- if he makes it through," Jon muttered, voice low and no longer carrying quite as harsh a rasp as Scarecrow's. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic-- "Please, just-- tell him I do care. I don't-- I really didn't want him to die."

Bruce’s eyes widened in surprise, crouching down with Jonathan and putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. He couldn’t remember if he had ever seen the other like this, trembling on the ground, without the influence of his own gas. “Thank you.” Suddenly, Batman’s head shot up as he heard the unmistakable sounds of the cops entering the building. Damn, they didn’t have much time. “Jonathan, I need you to get up now. We’re leaving,” he murmured as he stood up, pressing a button on his gauntlet before gingerly picking up Edward, a twinge of guilt going through him as the unconscious man whimpered. “Just follow me,” the Bat ordered before taking off down the hallways, effectively dodging the police until he made it to the outside through the loading bay, where his car that he had summoned earlier was waiting. However, some officers had followed the car, shouting around the corner. “Take him and get in the car.” He placed Edward in Jonathan’s arms before throwing as many smoke pellets as he had down to the ground, a wall of smoke eliminating anyone’s hope of seeing more than a few inches in front of their face. What a hero he was. Distracting the police to save the villains. Batman merely shook his head before getting in the car and pulling out of the hospital, much to the confusion of the remaining police officers. It wasn’t until they had begun to leave the heart of the city that Bruce glanced over at Jonathan. “You did the right thing.” A long pause before he dryly continued, “Once Edward gets better, I’m sure he’ll break you out of Arkham soon enough.”

Jon barely even acknowledged Batman’s word of thanks, paying no mind to the poor attempt of a comforting touch at his shoulder. He could comprehend nothing but his own impending reincarceration in Arkham and Scarecrow’s continuous shrieking of Failure! Pathetic! within his mind. He’d resigned to his fate much too quickly, but what could he do without risking Edward’s life even further? “What?” Jon muttered almost mutinously, frowning as he looked back up at Batman, eyeholes of his mask narrowed to dangerously suspicious slits. He could hear the sounds of the police, possibly even SWAT, storming the building. Shouldn’t have Batman knocked him out and handcuffed him to a pipe by now, for said police to find? “What do you mean, we’re leaving?” He didn’t get a chance to answer before Batman picked up Ed’s prone form with much more care than he ever thought possible (rage sparking at Ed’s whimper of pain), and ran off, giving Jon no other choice than to follow after casting one last forlorn glance at his abandoned scythe. “What is the meaning of this, Batman—“ Jon tried to sneer, indignant, but was abruptly stopped short by Ed’s still-limp body being transferred into his arms. Jon could only stare dumbly at the open door of the Batmobile, unable to believe what exactly Batman had asked of him until the growing shouts of police and the choking smoke of Batman’s diversion convinced him to throw caution to the wind and go for it. Jon bundled himself and Eddie into the back seat, carefully arranging him until he was laid across with his head cradled gently in Jon’s lap. He was barely aware of the Batmobile roaring to life and peeling away until the hospital was nothing more than a speck in the distance. Scarecrow was screaming and howling in his mind all the while, a maddening chorus of horror that grated at his nerves until Jon could stand it no longer, ripping off the mask and burying his face into his hands, the heels of his palms digging harshly into his eyes. Pathetic, pathetic—“Tell that to Scarecrow,” Jon muttered sullenly in response. He was going back to Arkham. Which... was probably needed, admittedly, considering the severity of his relapse. He hated when Batman was right. He couldn’t even be bothered to correct him on his proper title. Jon sighed, taking a deep, shuddering breath, hands falling to gently hold Eddie stable. “You say that he’s not coming to Arkham himself after getting better,” Jon retorted, a touch of bitterness in his tone. He chose not to mention, however, that he didn’t doubt it. Arkham was never able to keep him or Eddie locked down for long, much to Batman’s displeasure he was sure. He was caught by the sudden temptation to smooth down Eddie’s hair, stopped only by self-conscious awareness that Batman was watching. Batman hasn’t bothered to cuff him or restrain him in any way. Jon still had canisters of fear gas on his belt, syringes primed with even more, concentrated toxin. There was nothing to stop him from driving one into Batman’s neck and taking control of the vehicle himself. Nothing, except, this newfound concern for the well-being of a certain riddle-making nuisance. So, Jon did nothing. “Never knew you to have such a soft spot, Batman,” Jon commented, voice gaining something of an artificial, clinical edge to it reminiscent of therapist, analyzing and critical. A last ditch attempt to regain hold of the last vestiges of his lucidity from Scarecrow. He was Dr. Crane, now. Anything to convince himself what was happening was normal. “Showing mercy for not one, but two of your greatest enemies. Bravo.”

"You need to calm down," Batman ordered, glancing back and seeing Jonathan practically tearing into his sockets with the heels of his hands. The Scarecrow taking control right now, unsecured in his car, would end very poorly. Bruce drummed his fingers for a moment on the steering wheel before shaking his head. “Once Nygma gets better, I have no reason to send him back to Arkham until the Riddler comes out again.” Perhaps he was getting softer with age. Often times, that was his policy now; to not go after the people, merely the villains. Since they so rarely didn’t go back to their ways, it didn’t matter, but he always kept it in mind. Even as Bruce Wayne attempted to improve Arkham, Batman knew the work was far from done, and sometimes being out was better than being in for rehabilitation. With a scoff, the man raised his eyebrows, glancing back in the rear-view mirror at Jonathan. "Two of my /greatest/ enemies? You give yourselves too much credit. Two annoyances, for sure." He smirked before his eyes went back to the road in front of them. Arkham could be seen up ahead, and Batman sighed as he drove past the gates, never enjoying his time there. However, he could hardly complain; compared to what the people he put in there had to go through, he had it easy. Parking the car, Bruce got out before going around and opening the door for Jonathan. "I promise I will update you on his condition as soon as I can. He will get better soon." He stepped away from the car to give time to Jonathan, looking up at the building with a frown. Bruce probably knew the structure of the building by heart at this point, though that never prepared him for what was waiting inside. Was he even doing the right thing by sending these people time and time again to this place? Where else could they go, if-The man's thoughts were cut off as he heard the car door close behind him. Pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt, he gestured for Jonathan to put out his hands, cuffing them once he did. "Again, thank you. If you didn't cooperate, we would still be here, though neither of us would be faring as well." Batman lead the pair to the front doors, opening them. He took off the cuffs before giving one last nod to Jonathan, exiting the building and going back to his car. As he began to drive back to Wayne Manor, he looked in the rear-view mirror once more, seeing Edward still pale as a corpse, but breathing. What did he just get himself into? "Alfred, I need you to get pain medication and blood ready. I'm bringing home...some injured company."

"Right away, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to look into internal bleedings to make this as accurate possible. I will accept, however, that this wasn't entirely accurate haha


	3. Seeing Green

"I'm going to hold the Bat's words to you, Edward," Jon muttered under his breath. "That you'll come me, if-- when you get better." A pause, casting a sidelong glance to Batman still standing, waiting for him outside. His chest suddenly felt tight, but-- hell, Ed probably couldn't hear him anyways. Jon swallowed thickly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I might-- I might be inclined to-- love you, after all this. Perhaps. Despite how annoying you can be." His piece said, Jon finally followed Batman out of the car, silent and complacent as he held his hands out to be cuffed. He chose not to dignify Batman's words with an answer, instead quietly accepting his fate, head bowed as he was passed off from Batman to the security and orderlies of Arkham Asylum. 

That was the last thing Jon had to hold onto anymore. Time passed relatively uneventfully. Jon was assigned new diagnosis, new medication, new therapies, until Scarecrow was nothing more than a vicious whisper in the back of his mind. Still present, but no longer as controlling. It helped that Jon's thoughts were primarily occupied with concerns for Ed-- he'd left him, presumably, in the hands of the Batman. What had happened after Batman drove off? What happened when Eddie inevitably woke up? Jon spent most of his time in his cell, alone with said thoughts. He stayed out of trouble, at least. Boring, but safe. At first. In the weeks that followed, it seemed that Jon only grew more silently despondent. Batman never sent news of Edward's recovery, and what few contacts Jon kept in the asylum were unable to come up with any decent leads regarding when or where he was seen last, or whether he was even still alive. Jon retreated to his cell, abstaining from social contact more and more often until he barely deigned to leave his bunk at all. The orderlies of Arkham didn't care, apparently perfectly pleased enough that Jon wasn't getting up to any trouble. Usually, the doctor ended up using his good-behavior privileges to raid the cleaning supplies closet for chemicals to make improvised fear toxin, and the like, as he did when imprisoned for longer than he thought necessary. The Arkham guards, however, seemed to find Jon's dour mood downright hilarious, taking every chance they could to jeer and taunt him through the door of his cell every time they passed by. Jon endured it all with inhuman patience. He would have his revenge in time, he knew. The guards could laugh and mock, all they wanted. They would all be pissing their pants in fear soon enough.

It was a week until Bruce decided that Ed was in a good enough condition to be taken off of the medication keeping him under. The colour had returned to his cheeks, and the wound had begun to heal. Edward remembered opening his eyes slowly, murmuring for Jonathan, but instead being confronted with a concerned Bat. He was, of course, immediately put under again after he began screeching and punching wildly. The next time he woke up was in the shotgun of the Batmoblie, handcuffed. The hero had explained what had happened to the best of his ability. That the Scarecrow had gone to the hospital to save him, and the Bat has taken him to Arkham and taken care of Ed ever since. One curiosity-driven button press later, he was evicted from the Batmobile, and given a long warning about them not being friends that he mostly ignored. He had a job to do now, pocketing the prescription Batman gave him for pain medication. Edward took five hours before he left his home, two of it consisting of him becoming ‘presentable.’ Showered, hair gelled, teeth cleaned, outfit planned, clothes ironed, shoes polished, cane polished. If he was going to make a show, then damn he was going to look his best, especially after everything that had happened. He broke into a car about two seconds from walking out of his home, driving it up to Arkham. After parking, he walked up to the building, twirling his cane with a chuckle. The Riddler was in control, and was ready to have some fun. 

Jon was laying in his bunk when the first few muffled notes of raucous activity reached his ears. Jon groaned and tried to muffle the noises further by covering his head with the threadbare pillow. Likely just another riot, ridiculously common in Arkham, and would no doubt be quelled before it got too out of hand. When the cacophony of shouts and cries only proceeded to get louder, now interspersed by the deep rumbling of what could only be explosions, Jon's curiosity was finally piqued, sitting up abruptly in his cot with a pinched, vaguely annoyed expression on his face. What on Earth?

A few riddle boxes were all that were needed until the Riddler was walking through Arkham with a smirk, twirling his cane and opening every door he came by with his stolen keycard. The guards were far too concerned with attempting to contain the people running around to worry about the well-dressed villain. “Jonny, we’ve got a car to catch!” he sang as he opened the door to their cell, offering out a hand and a winning smile to the much taller man within it. 

"Edward," Jon gasped in sheer shock, startled to see his door swing open to reveal the Riddler standing there in all his glory. Alive! Alive. Edward was alive and, as far as Jon could tell, completely healthy. Jon bolted up from his bed, on his feet before he realized it, crossing the distance in an instant thanks to his long legs. He stopped just short of Edward himself, however, arms half-raised as though he'd perhaps thought of almost hugging Ed before suddenly thinking better of it. "Edward," Jon breathed again, confusion bleeding into his tone. Ed looked nothing short of stunning, dressed to the nines just to— what, break him out? God, Batman had been right. Jon stared down at the offered hand before grasping it tightly and pulling Ed in for a short, crushing hug, pulling away just as quickly. “No time to waste, is there?” Jon quipped, rushing out of his cell and glancing distastefully down the hall. The screams of fear and panic were delicious, of course, but there was much to be said about Riddler’s method of going about it. “Come on, lets just go. I’m dying for a proper shower and meal.”

The man chuckled, brushing off his suit from where the other had touched him before tapping Jonathan on the forehead with his cane. "Riddle me this, Jonny; how could someone as smart as you know that Ed isn't here at the moment?" Laughing, he lead them down the halls, shooting whoever tried to stop them before they came to a dead end with a green box.

The mild confusion that had been muddling Jon's expression deepened, also appearing slightly indignant when Ed-Riddler -tapped him on the head with that blasted cane of his. Jon frowned. Ed isn't here at the moment. Of course. While Jon was no stranger to psychotic episodes himself, as Scarecrow could clearly attest to, he couldn't help but feel somewhat... disappointed. Riddler was a fine mind, an equal match for Scarecrow on his best days but an utter nuisance at his worst, ego inflated to an impossibly high degree yet with an intelligence absolutely deserving of it. Stints in Arkham always left Jon feeling annoyingly lucid, the little white pills he was given twice daily to subdue his sociopathic tendencies and Scarecrow-related temptations making him as close to clear-headed as he supposed a normal person tended to be. It was for this reason that Jon simply quietly accepted it with nothing more than a slight narrowing of his eyes, far to grateful to have finally been given an out to question what the Riddler may or may not have up his sleeves. Still. Jon couldn't help but desperately and suddenly wish for just Edward in that moment, if only to assuage what fears remained from having to leave him behind. It was only a matter of time before his own medication wore off and Jon was left juggling his two personas in much the same way. If nothing else, Jon could appreciate the Riddler's ruthlessness, watching him mow down who ever dared to step in their with a pleased sort of indifference; Scarecrow or no Scarecrow, Jon always loved seeing that brief flash of fear in someone's eyes before they died.

"The more you cut me, the bigger I grow. What am I?" he asked, turning around and smiling innocently at Jonathan before pressing a button on his cane, the box exploding and leaving a large hole in the wall.

"A hole," Jon intoned flatly, belated in the wake of the answer manifesting itself in the exploding riddle box making their exit in the wall. 

The Riddler twirled his cane as he went back to the car, gesturing for Jonathan to get into the shotgun as he tossed him the keys before getting into the driver's seat with a smirk, starting up the car and pulling away from the asylum. He managed to get off of the road to Arkham and into the city as the police cars drove by, chuckling to himself at his success. Their car blended in perfectly; they just got to watch the show. 

"A diamond plate, a glowing grate, a place you never leave. What am I?" the Riddler asked again as he parked the car, getting out and leading the way into an alley. 

There was a long pause as Jon considered the last riddle, looking up at the seemingly abandoned factory with continued suspicion. Home, huh. 

Glancing back to make sure that Jon was the only one behind him, the villain slid a brick panel away, typing a series of buttons into the keypad until the unsuspicious metal door unlocked. "I don't think you've been here yet, Jonny. This is my newest home," he explained as they walked inside, revealing what had once been an abandoned storage factory turned into a chaotic workshop, every inch of one   
wall covered with riddles and pictures that was beginning to spread to the others. The Riddler opened a door tucked off to the side, revealing a setup much more like a typical apartment.Taking off his hat and placing it on the table he had leaned his cane against, the Riddler turned around to face Jonathan with a smirk. "Well, well, well. Don't thank me all at once for getting you out of the dump."

"Thank you," Jon eventually relented, voice gruff and still a little flat, eyes darting all over as he absorbed this apparent new headquarters of the Riddler. His gaze finally settled on Riddler- on Edward -again, after a few silent moments, considering. Contrary to Scarecrow, Jon always personally found it difficult to ascertain just how in control the Riddler was at any given moment. He could be anywhere between a slightly larger than usual obsession with riddles to all-out elaborate death traps. "You seem.... well," Jon said stiffly, after a beat, eyes pointedly shifting to where Ed had been shot before returning to his face. He idly wondered what all Batman had actually done. "Love what you've done with the place. Where have you been?"

"I love it too! You know, on my downtime, I interior design for people around Gotham. You would be surprised how many people don't recognize me out of the suit. It's not the best fun, but at least it's a better job then being a low-class drug dealer." The Riddler smirked, patting Jonathan's face consolingly before making his way over to the kitchen. "Oh, I've been around. Got all patched up by the Bat. No thanks to you." He turned around from the coffee he was beginning to brew to give Jonathan a look before turning back to the counter. 

Low-class? Who did he think he was calling low-class? True, Jon did tend to supplement his income occasionally by dabbling in the drug trade, either selling a diluted variant of his fear toxin to idiot self-described adrenaline junkies looking for a rush, or using the equipment he already had to produce the purest and most high quality methaphedamines, opiates, and cocaine the market had to offer. Jon wasn’t proud of it, particularly, seeing as he personally detested the destitute lowlifes who’d rather waste their lives addled on drugs than do anything worthwhile, but it producing and acquiring the necessary components for his fear toxin was costly, and this was a far more reliable source of income than simply robbing banks and museums. Jon endured the condescending pat to his face with a indignant curl to his lip, crossing his arms over his chest. He was willing enough to let Riddler’s apparent dig at him for supposedly being of no help, as well. So what. If Riddler wanted to believe that, he was perfectly entitled to. Whatever Jon may or may not have said in the back of that Batmobile meant nothing except a momentary slip in control. 

Edward had no qualms against Jonathan for what had happened at the hospital, being grateful for everything that happened, but the Riddler...well, he didn't appreciate being ditched, as he saw it, and grudges came easily for the villain. It had been a while since the two usually harmonizing personas had been at odds like this, and it wasn't going well inside their mind. "Eddie didn't take well to nearly dying and all. I've been running the show for quite some time now, and let me tell you, it's a dream come true. Who knows, maybe he never left the hospital. Too bad he couldn't get there sooner." The man chuckled before twitching slightly, one of his hands gripping the counter top. It was all a lie, of course; Edward had merely been letting the Riddler take the wheel because the other persona was much more ruthless, which is what one needed to have a successful breakout in Arkham. Now, however, he was attempting to get the villain out.

Jon usually got along with the Riddler about as well as Edward himself, but if they were going to be like this, Jon wasn’t in the mood to indulge either of them, and neither was Scarecrow. “Have you, now,” Jon retorted sourly, collapsing into a couch with sudden exhaustion. This is just what the Riddler was like, he had to remind himself. The Riddler actively made a game of prodding and poking peoples annoyances. It was how he got under your skin. Jon grit his teeth, but refused to drop the Riddler’s gaze. He was used to these tantrums, from Riddler and Eddie alike, and he would not be cowed by them, nor would he rise to the bait. Still, the seed of uncertainty had been planted, much to Jon’s slowly building displeasure. What if, what if he was right? What if the trauma had caused Edward to suffer a permanent psychotic break? What if Jon had waited too long to take Edward to the hospital?What if this really was all his fault? Jon tried to tell himself that ordinarily, he wouldn’t have cared, but even he knew that to be a lie. He cared, suddenly much more than he had any right to, and it wasn’t helped that the Riddler seemed to be trying his best to rub it directly in his face. 

A flash of anger crossed his face, and the Riddler marched over to where Jonathan was sitting, grabbing his cane along the way and pressing it against the other's throat. "Why did you leave me? Me?! I thought we were friends, and you abandoned me!" He raised his cane as if he was going to bash Crane's head in with it before stopping, his face paling. With a shiver, he stepped back, the cane hitting the floor.

Edward’s outburst of anger had propelled him across the room in an instant, the curved end of his question mark cane pressing threateningly against Jo’s throat. Jon, for his part, did not react, stating up unflinchingly up at Riddler, eyes narrowed with challenge even as Edward made as though he were to strike him—The cane dropped to the floor. Edward was back. Jon had to fight the sigh of relief at the fact. 

Edward swallowed guiltily as he looked down at Jonathan. "He didn't mean it. He's just upset, that's all. He wants to blame someone for what happened." With a sigh, the man walked back to the counter, gesturing for Jonathan to take a cup of coffee before pouring himself one of this own. Ed ran his hand along his face before going to the bathroom, returning in a moment looking much calmer. The pain medication was like a balm, both for his personas and his wound. "I hope you know I'm grateful for everything you did. You saved me, I would have died otherwise." 

Standing, he ignored the coffee, approaching Edward as soon as he returned from the bathroom. “I had to leave,” Jon explained simply. “I killed a very great many people for you, which the Bat did not take kindly to. I was presented with an ultimatum, which I had to accept.” Jon reached out to grip Edward’s arm suddenly, tight and desperate. “You absolutely would have died otherwise, and I fervently hope both sides of you realize you wouldn’t even be here right now if I’d allowed Scarecrow’s selfishness to overcome my capacity to care about you.” 

Edward nodded his head, putting some sugar in his coffee until Jonathan grabbed his arm, the man dropping the spoon in surprise. His eyes widened as he looked at Jon, his gut reaction to the imposing figure fear. The other’s voice made Edward’s skin crawl.

Jon stopped abruptly, having noticed his voice had dropped to a hissed whisper in his— anger? frustration? Regardless, he couldn’t help but feel he’d said too much. He pulled his hand away as though burned, and turned away, wrapping his arms around himself. “We at least agree on one thing,” Jon muttered quietly. “The Riddler isn’t the only one who blames me for what happened.”

 

Edward's startled expression slipped away into a small smile. “Jonathan, I believe I already made a point to express my gratitude. The Riddler...” He glanced away, frowning, before leaving the counter, walking back into the living room to pick up the fallen cane. The villian twirled it once, almost tiredly, before putting it back in its place by the door. He didn’t know what to say, not wanting to say too much but feeling obligated to, after everything. This had been the first time he had had the chance to talk to Jonathan after the man had saved his life, and for once, he found himself at a lost for words.   
“Neither of us...trust easily. Him less than I do, even though he loves making people trust him.” Edward chuckled, shaking his head before continuing, his face somewhat falling. “He wanted you to stay with us. And I understand why you couldn’t, I’m not blaming you, but my always-impulsive counterpart is, admittedly, acting more childish than usual.”

Guilt gnawed at Jonathan even though he knew full well there was no reason for it. Maybe-- it had something to do with the way Edward had put it. He wanted you to stay with us, along with Edward's comment about Riddler being childish...Almost like Riddler had been afraid. 

It was hard, to attempt to explain the inner workings of his mind, to differentiate between Edward and the Riddler. So often they flowed seamlessly from one persona to another that it was a near impossible task to try and explain it to someone else, especially one who had such distinct personalities. “Try to restrain yourself from holding it against us. He’s just trying to protect me, in his own way.” Edward smiled again, a little more cockily as he came back to the counter and picked up his mug. “Too bad there’s no licensed psychologist around who could even begin to understand what I’m talking about.” With another chuckle, Ed sipped his coffee, glancing back up at Jonathan with a small smile. What was this feeling that curled in his chest whenever he looked at the doctor? Gratitude? He wasn’t so sure; he’d have to find Selina when he got the chance to ask her. 

Jonathan could understand, loathe as he was to admit it. He huffed, running a hand down his face. He could understand. Really, he could. He'd worked with both Edward and the Riddler often enough to know so. Sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference between the two given how similar they were to begin with, that's all. "Just... make sure to pass along the message," Jonathan said eventually, all the fight leaving him in an instant, though it wasn't as there was much to begin with regardless. Never mind that Jonathan had been the one trying to protect Edward, when it was just as likely it was the Riddler who was to one to have gotten himself shot. He turned back around to face Edward, mouth twisted wryly. "Yes. Really is too bad. I do wonder where you could find one at this time of night." Jonathan made an amused noise in the back of his throat that could almost be construed as a laugh, of all things, if it weren't for the notes of slight self-deprecation. 

"Don't worry, he'll get it soon enough," Edward replied, tapping his forehead before taking another sip of coffee. The coffee was the only thing keeping him going at this point, if he was honest, though when had he ever listened to his body saying it was tired?

"I'm staying here tonight," Jonathan declared aloud. He knew that was likely the plan anyways, given that Edward had taken him here instead of-- well, anywhere else. The exhaustion that Arkham always left was beginning to weigh on him and was evident in the way his tone, half-hearted as it was, left no room for argument. "I'm in no mood to return to the mess we left behind. You left blood everywhere, and I didn't have the chance to clean and put away my equipment properly. My chemical solutions likely aren't any good anymore." There was also the fact, one that Jonathan still wasn't quite willing to admit, that Edward's near-death experience had rattled him greatly, a sensation that he had yet to get over. He was unwilling to leave Edward on his own just yet. God, of all times for his feelings to play up, why now. 

The man raised his eyebrows at Jonathan proclaiming his attention to stay before breaking into a wide grin. "A house guest? How splendid. I have a spare bedroom already that you are more than welcome to use until your apartment can get cleaned. No worries, I can have a few men in there tomorrow, if you would like." 

 

“Unless you’d like for your men to end up dead, I’d higly recommend that you didn’t,” Jonathan muttered, rolling his eyes as he followed Edward down the hallway. “My toxins require special care and some things require specific methods of disposal and storage. I’ll do it myself when I am up to it. But. Thank you. The offer is.... appreciated. You have a change of clothes, I hope?" said Jonathan, looking back up at Edward, daring a small smile. Granted, given the extreme differences between their body types, it was unlikely, but he hardly cared at the moment. "I'd rather like to get out the Arkham uniform."

Edward lead the way down the hallway, pointing out the bathroom and the spare bedroom as they passed them before opening the door to his own room. Inside was much calmer than most people expected. A deep forest green had been painted on the walls, the furniture all a dark oak. He opened up his closet, running a hand through his hair as he glanced to Jonathan from the suits before sighing, closing his closet and opening up his dresser. "You are far from my size, but this is the closest I can do," Edward finally said after digging around some more, pulling out a grey over-sized shirt that read 'Give Me Some Pussy' with Selina's face photoshopped on a cat and plaid pajama bottoms. "It was a gag gift, I'll have you know," Edward offered as he handed the shirt over, trying to hide his laugh at Jonathan's expression. He failed, giggling.

Jonathan found himself pleasantly surprised by the extent to which Edward’s hideout was furnished. Clearly, the man had no trouble acquiring money. It was a wonder why he even bother with crime. He wasn’t surprised, however, by the confirmation that Edward had nothing substantial for him to wear, not that Jonathan cared, particularly. The sooner he could rid himself of any trace of Arkham, the better. The pajama bottoms were marginally acceptable, the shirt, however...“How quaint,” Jonathan stated flatly, acerbically dry as he held up the offending item, unable to fight his distasteful grimace. He gave Edward a withering look at the poorly muffled chuckle. “I haven’t the faintest idea why you continue to associate with her, Edward.”

Edward rolled his eyes, making a mental note to tell Selina everything before leading the pair to the bathroom. "You are more than welcome to take a shower, if you'd like. You look like you need it. Here's shampoo, conditioner, body wash, soap, towels, cologne, hair wax, hair spray, pomade, styling cream, body lotion, hand lotion, a comb, a brush, floss, toothpaste, and I even have an extra brush." Ed glanced around his bathroom, seeing if he forgot anything that he used whenever taking a shower, before realizing that Jonathan probably didn't use more than basic shower supplies. "Well, let me know if you need anything!" And with that, Edward left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

A shower did sound alarmingly tempting, but he couldn't help making a face as Edward proceeded to rattle off a much too long list of what Jonathan could only assume were supposed to be personal hygiene products. “Good lord,” Jonathan scoffed disbelievingly as Eddie left him to his business. “It’s a wonder you have any time left in the day after all that.” One thing was right, however: Jonathan had little to no use for much of it. He barely used much more than shampoo as it was, being the startlingly simple man he tended to be. As such, Jonathan proceeded to ignore all of it and subsequently his shower was a very brief, if sorely needed, affair. The pajama pants unsurprisingly turned out to be somewhat ill-fitted to his ridiculously long legs, the cuffs cutting off some distance above his ankles, and Jonathan chose to ignore the shirt entirely. Going shirtless wasn’t anymore comfortable in Jonathan’s opinion, not to mention it felt like it verged on assuming an intimacy with Edward he wasn’t quite sure he was right to have, but it was infinitely preferable to wearing the travesty of a shirt he’d been presented with regardless. Edward would have to deal, and Jonathan would have to pretend his body wasn’t as much of a unsettling mess as he knew it to be. 

Jonathan exited the bathroom and guest room some time later, wearing only the loaned pajama bottoms, his hair still slightly damp, and wandered back out into the main area, looking for Edward. Absent of his usual layers and layers of clothing, he somehow managed to look even more frightenly thin and scarecrow-like than usual, even if he still managed to maintain the almost paradoxical appearance of wirey strength. His torso and arms were littered with dozens upon dozens of claw-like scars, faded with age, spotted intermittently by fresher ones gained from chemical or acid burns, as well as others presumably gained during past encounters with Batman or disputes between other rogues. Jonathan appeared to pay no mind to his appearance, instead making a beeline straight for Edward. When he reached his target, he stopped, clearing his throat. 

After Jonathan had turned on the water, Edward sighed, glancing around. He might as well be productive; at least, as much as he could be with his injury. He went out into his workshop, sitting down at his disk with a journal and a number of pencils. The man started flipping through the beaten book, drawing on previous ideas for the next contraption he had to build. He couldn’t forget, he still had that gun he needed to finish for Victor...Edward was sketching in the book, biting his bottom lip. The gun needed to be taken apart, he had a much more effective design that could reach longer lengths and have different firing tanks, while also being more aesthetically pleasing. He could hardly take commissions without making them worth his time in looks. He didn’t glance up until he heard a voice, doing a double take at seeing Jonathan shirtless, his eyes widening in surprise. “What are you doing?” There were...so many scars. So and so many scars. Most of them seemed...too old for the Scarecrow, which was more disturbing then anything. Then again, he had his own set of scars before the Riddler, who the hell was he to judge?

“I want to see,” he said suddenly before pausing, clarifying: “The wound. Let me see. I want to know that it really is fine. I didn’t have the chance before I was forced to flee the hospital with you in tow. I find it hard to trust the Bat’s handiwork.”Never mind the fact that Jonathan remained aware he held little to no medical knowledge of his own. He just— he just wanted to make sure it really was alright. The sight of Edward, unconscious and deathly pale from loss of blood, was a vision still burned into his eyes despite his best efforts, as was the wound in his side, that wouldn’t stop bleeding, god, why would it stop, it was too much, too much blood—Jonathan took a steadying breath, pushing the thoughts from his mind and quelling the cold rage that threatened to spring up at the memories. It would do no good to either of them if he allowed Scarecrow to claw his way out, spurred on by guilt and regret. 

Once Edward had been able to actually move his focus from Jonathan’s wiry body, with bones jutting out in seemingly all the wrong places, he frowned, automatically covering the wound with his hand. Ed stood up, about to protest that they didn’t all need to be shirtless, but the cocky comment got caught in his throat when he looked at the expression on Jonathan’s face. His skin crawled, and an uneasy smile crossed his face. “Now, Jonathan, just hold your horses, it’s fine, it’s fine,” the man said, chuckling nervously as he backed away. It didn’t matter that the other currently had all of his scars exposed, Ed didn’t exactly want to do that, the height difference as Crane approached making Ed more unsettled than he already was. Threatening people taller than him reminded him too much of his father, speaking of scars. 

“Please,” Jonathan asked, as politely as he could, smiling placidly. “To... assuage my worries. I’d like to be confident that you really are doing better.”

But the “please,” the calmer face...well, he didn’t really have the right to say no. Not after everything Jonathan had done for him. With a sigh, the man untucked his shirt and undid the buttons, displaying his toned body marred by many faint, small scars, and more recent ones varying in size. The wound was hardly difficult to spot; bruising around the bandages, which covered most of the left side of his stomach. “You’re lucky, I usually don’t take off my shirt for anyone until they buy me a drink first,” he commented with a smirk before carefully unwinding the bandages, revealing red skin tied tightly together with black string. “Be careful, it still hurts like a bitch,” Edward warned, glancing up at Jonathan warily. 

Apparently unaware of the fact that recalling the memories of that night had darkened his expression considerably, eyes flashing dangerously for that split second as though Scarecrow made to try asserting his control, Jonathan only tilted his his in slight confusion; what he was aware of, however, was Edward's eyes very blatantly roaming his body, earning a small frown from Jonathan as he fought the urge to blush and self-consciously cross his arms over his chest. Nonetheless, Jonathan took a half-step back as Edward stood. Jonathan himself may have long come to terms with the sorry state of his body, but he knew well enough that it didn't mean Edward had with his own. Jonathan leaned down, silently tracing the edges of the stitched wound with a long, bony finger with uncommon gentleness. To think, just a few short weeks ago, he'd practically been wrist-deep in his fervent efforts to remove a bullet from Edward's side. The stitching was clean and precise, a far better sight than when Jonathan had clumsily attempted the same with sewing needle and thread, hands far more used to mending torn seams in fabric rather than flesh. The bruising was still fresh, the skin still obviously tender, but that at least meant Edward was healing and healthy. It was an immense relief. Nodding, Jonathan stood, apparently sufficiently pleased for the time being. As was Scarecrow, or so that he hoped. The ever-present growling in the back of his mind had quieted, forced to acknowledge that the man it had seemingly declared to be under its protection was safe. 

Edward's hand clenched as he tried to fight the urge to push Jonathan away as he watched the other touch the wound. However, he didn't fail to notice how gentle the taller man was being with him, which, from knowing Jon, wasn't the most usual. He /was/ going to just stand there and let the other do whatever he wanted to do.

"I didn't mean to unsettle to you, earlier, if that is the case," Jonathan spoke up again after a moment, suddenly appearing uncomfortable with himself, nervously rubbing at his arm. "It's just, Scarecrow, he-" he hissed out a frustrated breath. "He didn't take the whole... incident, very well. Far more protective of anything than I've ever seen him. He's angry-- I'm angry, and..."He took a step back while taking a steadying breath, expression blanking until it had returned to its usual air of polite neutrality. "I am relieved you are feeling well. I'd recommend that you try not to antagonize armed thugs in the future, at least without proper backup." There was a small pause, before Jonathan continued stiffly, not quite looking Edward in the eye. "Do you... remember much of that night?"

Raising his eyebrows, Ed looked at Jonathan, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I apologize for angering you and your counterpart, though there is only so much I can express that honestly when I'm more interested in the fact that you were protective of little old me." He chuckled before buttoning up his shirt, the cocky smile slipping off of his face. "Thank you." When Jonathan took a step back, Edward ran a hand through his hair with a frown, attempting to remember what he could. "I remember getting shot in near perfect clarity. My memory is hazy after that point. I remember going to your home and having you be quite angry at me when you realized what was going on. I remember..." The man frowned, looking away and crossing his arms, before sighing. "I was frightened. I have been shot before, but I never thought I was going to die like I thought that night. Believe me, I would love to say that will never be the case again, but I know myself and the Riddler well enough to know that once I'm healed, I'll have no problem getting back to my cocky self." Edward rolled his eyes, amusedly exasperated at himself, before gesturing to the plans sprawled out over the table. "Until that time, I will just busy myself around here. I have quite a few things I need to catch up on." Edward made a move to move back towards his desk before pausing, glancing up at Jonathan with a cocked eyebrow. "I have two questions for you, Jonny." With that nickname, a smile crossed his face, one a little too wide and a little too dark to be one of Edward's. "One, what compelled you to have the desire to not wear a shirt? I mean, I know men undress for me all of the time, but..." Shrugging, the man grinned again before holding up two fingers. "Two, I want to hear your side of the story of what happened that night. I feel like...there's something there." The man, now a fusion between Edward and the Riddler, sat down in a chair, gesturing for Jonathan to sit in the one across from it. "What happened that night that made you decide to stay here, in my home? I mean, I know we have been roommates before, but I never got the impression you particularly cared for my presence."

"Because I ain't about to wear a shirt that's askin' for pussy," Jonathan retorted sharply, accent thickening very briefly as a result of his annoyance. He drew back again, suddenly feeling put on the spot, unable to look Edward in the eye after catching sight of that distinctly unsettling smile, far to close to Riddler's in appearance to his liking. Odd, as it never used to bother him quite this much. Most times, he almost tended to prefer Riddler over Edward, if only because Riddler being in control tended to result in heists that had a marginally better chance at succeeding. He supposed he might as well consider himself lucky that Edward appeared to remember startlingly little about what occurred that night. He narrowed his eyes at the offered chair, and scoffed, instead choosing to remain standing; out of his element as he was, suddenly caught at the intersection between his long-buried feelings and the desire not to be picked apart like a riddle meant to be solved, he was still the Master of Fear, and he would use whatever subtle intimidation tactics he still had at his disposal, his height advantage included. "You showed up, bleeding, at my doorstep, and proceeded to bleed all over my home while I dug the bullet out of your side," Jonathan began sharply, a touch defensive. "Then you almost died and I forced to take desperate measures. I may have taken an entire hospital hostage, it gets fuzzy for bit. Is that sufficient enough?" He didn't immediately answer Edward's final query. Why had he decided to stay here? Truthfully, the blood was no bother to Jonathan. He had allowed his quarters to fall into similar states of disrepair after failed experiments. It was one of the few points of contention between him and Edward, considering Ed tended to lean towards the neat freak side of things, whereas Jonathan was more live and let live. Everything still had its place, it was just only Jonathan knew where that place was. "I... may be inclined to... admit that I care, somewhat," Jonathan relented with no small amount of begrudging reluctance. It was as much as he was willing to say. "And, as such, I remain... worried about your condition. Scarecrow merely needs to be assured his efforts weren't in vain, is all." It was an explanation that would have to do. He leveled Edward-- or Riddler, he hardly cared --with a challenging glare. Edward could think what he liked of it. 

Edward covered his mouth as he snorted at Jonathan’s retort. Hearing the great Jonathan Crane not only say that sentence, but slip into his accent to say it, was too funny to resist. “In my defence, I didn’t /ask/ you to save me. You were the one who decided to pull the bullet out while taking my body around the house,” he replied, smirking as he did so. “The Bat attempted to fill me in on the holes in my memory. Said that he was surprised, at the amount you did for me at the hospital. And I must say, I am surprised too. But hearing you care, even with the glare accompanying it...” The Riddler stood up, walking over to Jonathan and taking his hand, kissing it while looking up at the other, humour dancing in his eyes. “It fills in quite a few questions. And you are welcome to stay, as long as you would like.”“Now, you are welcome to dig through my closets to find a shirt, and if you truly can’t, I’m going out shopping for you, because I refuse to let my guest be forced to stay half-naked due to his unnaturally long body.” He chuckled, taking a step away and inclining his head. "Now leave me be. I have things to do."

Jonathan couldn't help the tinge of pink that crossed his cheeks when Edward, no the Riddler, there was no way Ed would do that, kissed his hand. "Fine," he murmured, quickly leaving the laboratory and returning to Edward's living quarters, ignoring the eyes on his back and the tingling that he still felt in his hand. Now was not the time for emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long break! Graduation was psychotic, but now I'm back for the summer, so hopefully I will be posting a lot more on all my fics in progress, especially this one. Thanks for the continued support!

**Author's Note:**

> I always end up writing angsty near death fics, I can't help it, #sorrynotsorry


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